drpswfandomcom-20200214-history
Faron Valeron
Email: Freemantle04@gmail.com Description Division: Archer Rank: - No Preference Physical Description: Full pouting lips, intense grey eyes, brown cap of curls, bells in hair always tinkling, chin smooth and shaven, high cutting cheekbones, broad shoulders, at a height of barely five feet, slender quick fingers, sharp nose, light footed, excellent with horses, impatient, narrow-minded, unmerciful to disrespect or dishonesty to the law, knows nothing about women and is uninterested in anything other than fighting for the people. Land/Birth: Arafel, common Age: 18 Weapon: Bow and Arrows Secondary Weapon: Sword History Faron Valeron had been a rather skilled apprentice of the head Blacksmith, whose fame presided in the surrounding villages as much as Valeron's village. Throughout the earlier years, he learned to fan the flames, to bask in the heat, the sounds of pounding the anvil, the shaping of the malleable, glowing with pleasure at the horses, and other beasts for which he attached the sturdy iron to their worn hoofs. When his dear Da could no longer afford the price of Valeron's apprenticeship, for the Valeron family had fallen on hard times, his Master was sorry to hear and in his sympathy raised the boy to Journeyman and refused to relinquish the lad, nor demanding any else fees for upkeep, besides that the boy's time remained his. At sixteen, Valeron was allowed to create a project and had forged a sword. He dipped it in salt and water, to make the metal's hardness strong and instead of brittle, and was proud of his craftsmanship, though his Master did not say outright, he saw the happiness, a sense of possession, and could it have been tears? All those lit the old man's dark usually unfathomable eyes, such a short taste of the Light before the brigands made off with the Master's belongings and his life. The bandits judged by Valeron's short stature for him not to be to be a threat, so they left the beaten, mocked and insignificant boy to curl up and perhaps die. That boy passed away and it was then, not at the making of the sword they had stolen but at the brutal death of his dear Master at the cost of a sack of gold, that Valeron truly became a man. The man was filled with rage. Shaking like a leaf in blustery winds, the bruised Valeron planned as he picked up the bow and arrows he whittled as a boy for snaring and shooting rabbits, slung the heavy-headed hammer over his belt and took Brenda, Master's filly now that Master would not mind if he could receive the proper retribution, he followed the trail, tracking with his considerable knowledge of woodcraft though the thieves were clearly in a hurry to get away, ignoring his wounds and pausing only for the Goodwife to bandage the worse of gashes before moving on, fleeting from remote paths to obsolete trails. They ambushed him and flayed him to the inch of death, jeering at the weakened man, who swayed with blood loss and the bleeding wounds before crashing onto the floor of the forest. The two leaders, masked but spoke nasally, "thanks young popinjay" when they grabbed Brenda's reins and pulled him down with hooked staffs, then pronouncing in a thick foreign accent, "prepare to meet your maker!" Valeron realised that he awaited the last blow, the strike of mercy some would call it and was resigned and shamed to that he failed. It was at the very moment, like a tale out of the gleeman's Legends at the common rooms, men donning a scarlet blur of insignia in shape of a hand on their jackets burst out and collided. Both parties looked suitably shocked but soon the band of brigands were dispatched of and distributed justice by the newcomers, who told Valeron a few interesting truths that swayed him even as he patched their torn leathers and links of chain-mail. Valeron had planned to return to the Forge when the vengeance is fulfilled, yet as he stared at the loathed villains, his sworn enemies a hour ago, hanging from the tops of the trees he knew he would never assimilate the vulnerable life of the villagers again. Slowly, a grim smile crept onto his face. Adjusting the straps of the spirited mare, Valeron saw that he and Brenda had a great deal of riding to do in the near future. Foran Valeron knew exactly what Band he wanted to be a part of, to join, so that no villagers will ever confront the fists and knives of evil again. Category:Band of the Red Hand Bios Category:Biographies Category:All Category:Band Archers